The rice plants waved from side to side in the summer breeze, endless viridian green against a landscape of burnt sienna and umber. The sunlight streaming through titanium white clouds was zinc yellow, and it left sparkles of aluminum powder on a pond of cobalt blue. Cressida swirled the paintbrush through American rose and dotted it on the vermillion of the cliffs far in the background, completing the picturesque landscape of the quadrangle.

She leant back and looked at the painting, somewhat dissatisfied with it. American rose might not have been the right color. It was more candy apple red or electric crimson. And maybe diamond dust would have looked better than aluminum powder, to really capture the essence of sun on water, or maybe-

Maybe she was just overthinking it.

She looked at the painting, and then at her pigments. She eyed the chocolate cosmos. Dark, rich, deep red—it would be the perfect opposite of bright, vibrant American rose, especially in a painting where she was trying to create so much contrast. But was chocolate cosmos really faithful to the cliffs of the Mare Acidalium at sunset?

Cressida frowned and walked over to her window. It wasn’t that she wanted photorealism, exactly, but she wanted something that really matched the soul of the place, the heart of the landscape. Colors were important for that. She pulled open the drapes, revealing the real rice plants, and all of the people who worked in them. The cliffs rose up in the background. Chocolate cosmos did kind of match their character, but it wasn’t really super accurate-

“What the hell?”

Something flashed in the sky, momentarily flickering before vanishing into thin air. Cressida squinted. There it was again—a sleek chrome triangle, pulsing in and out of existence. That was advanced cloaking technology, the likes of which she’d never seen outside of crappy sci-fi B-movies they played at the theater on Fridays. Martian ships didn’t look like that.

“Dad?” she called downstairs. “Dad, there’s something weird in the stratosphere.”

“I know,” he shouted back. “They’re with me-“

“The ones in the ship?” she asked, watching all the workers in the field stop their labor to gaze at the cyan sky. “Because there’s a white thing-“

“What?”

“Come take a look at it.”

She heard him murmur an apology to his visitors—Eleutherian ambassadors, probably, but she had long since given up on trying to keep his various guests straight—and run upstairs, his footsteps pounding on the hardwood floor. He joined her at the window still, shielding his eyes with one hand.

“Look, Dad,” she said. “It’s flickering, see? That’s not one of ours.”

“That’s strange,” he said slowly. “That’s a nice ship. A really nice ship.” Even from this far away, Cressida could tell it was expensive; the way the mid-morning light glinted off the metal was unique to fancy Eleutherian cruisers. But why would the space equivalent of a yacht have cloaking technology unless whoever was flying it really, really didn’t want to be seen?“It doesn’t look dangerous,” Cressida said, “but civilian ships aren’t even allowed to have that type of tech. That goes against so many regulations it’s not even funny.”

“You’re right. And it isn’t just cloaking, either.” Her father tilted his head up, shielding his eyes with one scarred hand. “See how shiny it is? That’s not for aesthetic purposes—or, well, it is, but those are shields, like on a military ship.”

Cressida’s voice caught in her throat. “Military?” The Eleutherian military was no joke; their fleet outstripped anything Mars had by far, to the point where fending them off was laughable. The last war they’d fought had resulted in patches of nuclear devastation all over Daedalia Planum, and the soil was still irradiated and poisonous even centuries later. And, to Eleutheria, that had been nothing—at the time, their Imperatrix had called it a “skirmish.” Millions of people dead and entire cities leveled, a civilization reduced to radioactive ash, and it barely even registered on Eleutheria’s radar. They could nuke the entirety of Mars and barely bat an eyelash. Cressida was sure that her father’s status would protect her in some way—he prided himself on being annoyingly overprotective, and he was rich and powerful in some sectors—but, at the end of the day, he was just a farmer who had gotten lucky. He was high-ranking, but was he high-ranking enough to save his daughter and his planet from the most volatile empire known to mankind?

“What did you do?” Cressida demanded. “Why is the Eleutherian army coming after us?”

“I didn’t do anything, not really,” he said quickly. “And they wouldn’t send the army after us. They’d send the space force.”

“That is literally the opposite of reassuring.” The only thing more terrifying than the sight of centuria of mutant super-soldiers was the sight of centuria of mutant super-soldiers riding indestructible starships.

“Don’t panic just yet. That might not even be a military craft,” he said, though Cressida could hear the waver in his voice. “Military ships are’t sleek and white—more cubic and black and intentionally intimidating.”

Cressida squinted, trying to get a closer look. Everyone in the fields had long since stopped working; now, they just stared up at the sky, enraptured. The vessel drew closer, close enough to cause tornadoes of rusty-red dust to swirl up from the ground in jets of spent soil, and then closer still. It was big—admittedly, not as big as a yacht, but big—and Cressida felt a surge of anxiety as she realized just how near it was to the farmhouse. Either it would flatten all the crops and destroy the year’s harvest, which would be a massive inconvenience requiring ten tons of paperwork, or it would completely crush the homestead. Neither were good options, and both were bound to piss off the almighty Algorithm.

But, to her surprise, the ship simply coasted over them with a surprising amount of grace for something so large and unwieldy-looking. It cast a long, dark shadow over the fields as the Martian sun vanished behind glimmering Eleutherian plastic, sending chills down Cressida’s spine.

“Hey, Ace,” her father called to one of his guests. “Can you come up here for a minute?”

“Ace?” Cressida asked. That name sounded like it belonged to a frat boy, not a visiting dignitary. “Who the hell is—“

“What?” A teenage boy with wild, curly black hair came barreling into the room in a cacophony of noise. His clothes suggested that he was a soldier, but his demeanor seemed less “military precision” and more “confused.” Maybe Eleutheria’s massive population meant that they were less discerning when it came to their soldiers, since they had so much cannon fodder, or maybe he was smarter than he looked.

“Is that who I think it is?” Cressida’s father asked, gesturing to the ship. Ace considered it for a minute.

“Yeah,” he said. “Oh my god, yeah. That’s Acidalia. We’re so fu—uh, screwed.”

“Wait,” Cressida interjected, “Acidalia? You’re not talking about-“

“You know exactly who I’m talking about,” he replied. “Either that or her psycho mother, because there are only two people I can think of who have rides like that.”

Cressida looked nervously at her father, and his eyes widened slightly.

“You don’t think it could be Alestra, do you?” he asked.

“Alestra Cipher is after you?!” Cressida exclaimed. “What the hell, Dad?” Alestra was the most dangerous woman in the solar system—hell, probably even the whole galaxy. She killed her own citizens on a regular basis, and she did not like Martians, particularly martians from the Mare Acidalium quadrangle. If she saw the opportunity to strike, she’d probably mow down the whole Seren family where they stood.

“I don’t think it’d be her,” Ace said dismissively. “It must be Acidalia. If it was Alestra, she’d have burnt this whole place to the ground already. We’d all be piles of radioactive ash by now. But that’s not the point—it doesn’t matter if she’s on that ship or not, because she’s the hunting dog to Acidalia’s fox. We are so, so, so screwed—and the fact that Acidalia thought it was necessary to come all the way here doesn’t bode well, either.”

“What do you mean, ‘that doesn’t bode well?’” Cressida asked again. “Dad, what’s happening?” Moving away from the window, she knocked over the all-but-forgotten jar of mixed chocolate cosmos, which left a reddish brown stain where it spilled.

She went utterly ignored.

“Yeah, it must be Acidalia’s,” Ace decided. “Alestra wouldn’t have let us live this long—she’s too efficient for that. And Cassiopeia’s an impulsive idiot, but Alestra keeps a leash on her, right?”

“I suppose there’s only one way to find out,” Cressida’s father shrugged.

Approximately thirty seconds later, Cressida and her father, trailed by Ace and a strange Eleutherian girl with fluorescent pink hair, stood outside the homestead in a rare patch of grass. Each and every one of them was sweating and tired-looking—something about the heat made standing under the sun exhausting, even when one had barely done anything requiring any sort of labor. Together, they stared at the ship, watching, waiting.

Suddenly, with an odd lack of fanfare, the shields vanished, and in place of their iridescent glow was a set of marble steps that somehow looked as natural on the landscape as the rice plants and the trees. At their very center stood a woman in a white dress and a veil—she could have been a bride, but Cressida knew better. She was flanked by two other women wearing identical gray uniforms, but somehow they gave off the same energy as an entire court full of people, and Cressida felt like she ought to respect this person, whoever she was.

The girl with pink hair, the one who apparently didn’t speak a word of Anglian, dropped to her knees in an awkward sort of worship. Cressida briefly contemplated doing the same thing, but neither Ace nor her father followed the girl, so she did a slight curtsy and remained standing, feeling very small compared to this foreign princess of a person. Even here, surrounded by the spoils of her family’s wealth—a mansion of a farmhouse, fields upon fields of employees, the best technology any Martian could ever hope to buy—Cressida felt like a tasteless hick.

“You know how to make an entrance,” her father said to the stranger, smiling slightly.

She sighed. “Old habits die hard.” Something in her expression was completely humorless, but not in an I-mean-business way, more of a someone-just-died way. Something churned in Cressida’s stomach, and she suddenly got a horrible gut feeling that something had gone very, very wrong.

“Are all the Imperials this dramatic?” her father asked, apparently not picking up on the David-this-is-serious vibes the woman was clearly trying to send his way. It took a moment, but a wave of embarrassment surged through Cressida. Imperials? This woman was an Imperial? Not just an Imperial—if she was standing here, and she wasn’t Alestra, she had to be—

Oh my God, Cressida thought. I’m speaking to Acidaila Cipher. It should have been obvious in retrospect; Ace had identified this craft as her ship, after all, and it made sense that the Imperatrix Ceasarina would be the one person outside the military who would own a ship this nice. But Cressida had been expecting some type of aid or minister to come out first—why would the ruler of the most powerful empire humanity had ever known want to speak face-to-face with the Secretary of Agriculture on Mars, of all people?

“David, I don’t have time for this,” Acidalia said, looking harried, and the tone in her voice made Cressida want to hear whatever she had to say sooner rather than later. She gave off a sort of frantic, panicked aura, even though her stone-cold face was completely calm. It was like chaos and disarray just surrounded her—she wasn’t its source, but it seemed to like her, and Cressida wanted to figure out what the problem was before it turned into a catastrophe.

“Sorry,” her father said. “Generally, when important political figures show up at my house with no explanation or forewarning, I get a little curious.”

She glared at him. “There are a lot of things we could be talking about right now that don’t involve dramatic entrances. I’m afraid that I come bearing bad news.”

“Bad news?” Cressida asked, terrified by the vagueness of the statement. “Bad news” coming from a political figure could mean anything from an unfavorable poll to a famine that killed eight thousand people, and that was just on Mars. She didn’t even want to imagine what had happened in order to make Eleutheria acknowledge that it had a problem.

“We should discuss this inside,” Acidalia said, gesturing quickly towards the ship, which vanished into thin air at the movement of her wrist. Every worker in the fields stared, open-mouthed, but the Eleutherians didn’t look surprised in the slightest. As Acidalia walked to the farmhouse, Martian dirt soiled her elaborate white gown, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. She exuded the same type of confidence as Arlen Tycho—the persona of a leader who knew damn well how powerful and famous they were, and didn’t care what the unwashed masses thought of them.

With surprisingly little fanfare, Acidalia and her companions sat at the low wooden table in the kitchen by the foyer, and Cressida almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of the sight. Even she didn’t sit in the kitchen—they had dining rooms for that. The kitchen was the domain of the help and other people whose social points weren’t high enough to let them sit with the big guns. But Acidalia was the biggest gun in the room, and if she wanted to sit in the kitchen, the Algorithm probably wouldn’t penalize either of the Serens for that.

Acidalia said something low to Cressida’s father before turning to her. She gulped, half-expecting to be struck down or laughed at, but the Imperatrix had an expression of almost friendly neutrality, though she still gave off an underlying feeling of dread and anxiety.

“Um… bonus vesper, celsituda tua,” Cressida said, feeling nervous for a reason she couldn’t place.

“Loquerisne Latine?” Acidalia asked, surprised.

“Scio exigua.” I know a little bit. She’d studied Latin at school, too, but not the complicated, intricate dialect that Eleutheria used, if one could even call it that. Eleutherian “Latin” was really more of a creole of Latin, English, random Romance languages, Greek, and a bunch of drunk people adding -um and -us and -trix to words where they didn’t belong. It was created by a slew of college students armed with online translators and some Church documents two thousand years ago, and it showed. But she could hardly insult Acidalia’s mess of a first language in front of her, so she smiled blandly and tried her best not to cringe at the incorrect declensions and pronunciations.

“Ego Acidalia,” Acidalia said, as if Cressida wouldn’t know who she was. She pronounced her name the Catholic way, like the word acid. “Tu es filia David?”

“Sic. David pater meus,” Cressida replied. “Meum nomen Cressida est.” Yes, I am David’s daughter. My name is Cressida.

“Suave te cognoscere est,” Acidalia. “Pater mecum operatur. Qui dixit mihi multus est de te. Quotos annos habes?”

“Sedecim annos habeo.” I am sixteen years old—well, more like I have sixteen years. She was pretty sure that’s how they said it in Latin. That’s how they said it in Spanish, right? Tengo dieciseis años, not soy dieciseis años. And Latin was like Spanish’s ancestor, sort of. So that had to be it. Cressida was suddenly reminded of the hours she’d spent in Trinity Court’s Academy for Young Women, staring longingly at the languid summer days just outside the window and trying to remember complex webs of verb tense rules for the sake of grammar quizzes. Was Acidalia trying to test her?

“Libens sum. Possumus, eamus intus?” Acidalia asked.

Before she could reply, Ace interrupted them. “Et arripuerit,” he said. “T Ubi est?”

Acidalia sighed deeply and didn’t meet his eyes. With a sweeping gesture, she announced more than said, “Veni. Nos eamus.”

No one moved.

She did not say anything, but gave them a look that wordlessly said, “this is a command, not a suggestion.”

“Et mortuus est?!”

Acidalia’s expression barely changed. “Cassiopeia.”

Looking incredulous, Ace sank down on the table. “Quomodo?”

“Et percusserunt eum. Significatum est enim mihi est…. mea culpa, se nunquam mori. Et ego paenitet.”

“Non utique creditur moriturus!” Ace exclaimed. “Erat tantum septendecim annorum… Ego ei ne ire. Cur non ibimus?” He buried his head in his hands and sunk down to the table, muttering frantically to himself in a whispered Shakespearean soliloquy.

Cressida didn’t know enough Latin to pick up on most of the conversation, but she knew enough to judge that someone had died. Mortuus, mori, moriturus… dead, dying, dying? It was difficult to tell; half their words didn’t make sense in Classical, non-Eleutherian Latin, because they had the wrong declensions or wrong grammar or were in the wrong order. But “mort” she understood enough. And “mea culpa…” that meant “my fault.” Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa was part of the Confíteor. Imperatrix Acidalia was claiming responsibility for someone’s death.

Apparently Ace had asked a rhetorical question, because Acidalia didn’t answer him. Instead, she merely looked down at the wooden table, elegantly mournful. Her eyes were watery, but there was no other sign that she was even remotely upset.

Ace, meanwhile, remained with his head in his arms for a few seconds, and the girl with pink hair looked over at him, concerned. She went to lay a hand on him, then redacted it, swallowing hard and looking at Acidalia.

Suddenly, Ace jolted up, his eyes red. “Et scissis vestibus pergens ad te.”

“Fecit,” Acidalia said softly.

“Et occidit se ipsum pro te,” Ace snapped. “Et occidit se ipsum pro te et tu ne quidem curant!”

Cressida caught the word occido—killed. Et occidit se ipsum pro te—“he killed himself for you.” She was taken aback; who would just say that to the Imperatrix? This random soldier had to have been of extraordinarily high rank to get away with this type of open defiance.

“Hey,” she whispered to the girl in gray, the one with long hair tipped with streaks of red (which the Algorithim would have killed her for if she wasn’t Eleutherian.) “Hey, do you speak English?”

“Um, some?” she whispered back. “I’m Athena.”

“Thank god,” Cressida said. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“The brother of the Imperatrix—uh, the empress?” she asked herself. “No… she who commands? I don’t know if there’s an English word with the same exact meaning-“

“Doesn’t matter,” Cressida said quickly.

“Yeah, I guess it doesn’t. But, um, the brother of the Imperatrix is dead.” She didn’t use the English possessive Acidalia’s brother, which made her voice sound stilted and awkward in a way she probably didn’t intend.

“I didn’t even know she had a brother,” Cressida said. She saw Acidalia and Aleskynn’s faces everywhere, but there was never any boy with them. If Acidalia did have a brother, his image would be on every propaganda poster ever produced.

“I didn’t know either, until about yesterday,” Athena said. “He’s gone now, though.”

“What happened?”

“Acidalia said Cassiopeia shot him—you probably don’t know who that is. She’s, um… insanus. What’s the word for-“

“Insane. It’s the same, pretty much,” Cressida interrupted. “How did she-“

“I don’t know,” Athena said. “I found out about this pretty recently, too.”

“Oh.” Cressida felt like she shouldn’t be sitting here watching this—Acidalia had just lost a brother, and Ace was clearly upset about it. At the same time, though, she wasn’t sure how she could get away. Surely if the Imperatrix wanted her gone, she’d have told her to leave, but why would she want her here?

She turned to Athena, who looked like she felt just as bemused as Cressida did.

“Non est vestrum erit flagitium!” Ace shouted, suddenly, standing. The Imperatrix looked momentarily surprised before reverting to the same expression she’d worn before—sad, but strong, determined. She looked like a movie character, not someone whose brother had just been brutally murdered by a madwoman.

“Non ea culpa fuit,” Cressida’s father said gently.

“Sic factum est,” Acidalia replied, looking down at the ground. “Et mortuus est in me. Me paenitet, Ace-“

"Ignosce, non satis!” Ace spat. “Quod illi non erit! Et profecta!”

Cressida cringed internally. This man was going to wind up dead if Acidalia was anything like her mother—which, judging by the white and the theatrics, she was. Insulting the Imperatrix was not a good way to become popular in Eleutheria.

But, to her surprise, Acidalia hardly reacted. She closed her eyes and put her hands on her face for a moment, before sighing deeply. “Scio.” I know.

“Acidalia,” Cressida’s father said. “Prohibere. Quid enim sunt ne putasti?”

The Imperatrix didn’t say anything, but she wiped her eye with the back of her hand so subtly Cressida might not have noticed it if she weren’t so close. Ace just sunk back into the table again, and the girl with pink hair was clearly crying. The whole room filled with a stilted silence for a few minutes. Athena, her friend, and Cressida stood against the wall, bemused. Athena’s friend looked scared and embarrassed, chewing on her lip until blood trickled down her chin.

With a sudden realization, Acidalia abruptly straightened her shoulders, switching from one emotion to another far too quickly for Cressida’s comfort. She couldn’t tell whether the Imperatrix was upset and very good at hiding it or crying crocodile tears for the benefit of Ace, but either way, the transition was too sharp to seem normal. Acidalia looked—and acted—almost like a robot. A creation that had been told what humans liked when it came to looks and personality, and then replicated it, but replicated it wrong. Her oddly symmetrical features, her strange bright brown eyes, her impossible hourglass figure, the way she went from a weepy sister to a strong leader in a nanosecond—it wasn’t right, and it made Cressida slightly anxious. Acidalia was far too deep in the uncanny valley for her liking.

“Aegre fero,” Acidalia said, while Ace continued to look blankly at the wall. Then, addressing Cressida’s father, “David, si necesse est dicere.” We need to talk.

“About what?” Cressida asked, recognizing too late that she maybe shouldn’t have.

Her father’s eyes turned shifty. “Non hic.” Not here.

Acidalia nodded. “Sunt telecameras.”

“Cameras?!” All the times she’d danced around her room singing Vocaloid songs into a brush at top volume flew through Cressida’s head, before she remembered that there were clearly bigger issues at hand. Who would want to bug the Seren farmhouse? Just what types of games were her father playing?

“In Revelatio,” Acidalia said, standing. “Non debeo hic.”

Cressida really wished they would stop speaking Latin—or at least speak normal Latin—but knew better than to say it. She joined her father, glaring at him. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Come with me.”

The stitch in her side returned as her father dragged her back to the ship, which materialized again in order to allow the passengers on. She winced, clambering up the marble steps. They were a lot less beautiful when she was roughly forced up them, and they were steep. Acidalia followed quickly, almost jogging in her seven-inch heels. It was a miracle she didn’t fall. Robotic, Cressida thought again.

The Revelation had entirely too many chairs and too much decor—all blue stones mixed with Greek and Roman art, not like Eleutherians even had any concept of what Greece and Rome were outside of those cool ancient people who made pretty statues. The neon lights immediately gave her a headache, and the architecture was sleek and organic but cold—but not literally, it was about eighty degrees. Everything Cressida disliked was in the Revelation’s sterile insides.

She collapsed on a rounded bench with white LEDs on the edges, blinking at the brightness. None of the other Eleutherians seemed too bothered by the harsh, unnatural lighting, though they’ll all been squinting in the Martian sun. Cressida’s resentment towards them grew suddenly, especially when every last one of them started speaking in rapid Latin, much too fast for her to understand. Who the hell were these people? They could land a ship on her farm, invade her house, make battle plans without her? Who did they think they were?

“Excuse me,” she said.

She was promptly ignored as her father delved deep into a conversation with Athena, the one who spoke a bit of English.

“Excuse me,” she said, louder this time.

They continued their discussion.

“Veniam in me!” she snapped. Six heads turned to look at her. “What the hell is going on?”

They stared at her blankly.

“Quid agatur in infernum?”

Her father sighed, looking worried. “We’re going to Eleutheria.”

“What?”

“Acidalia had a conversation with the Proregina of the Lunar Colonies-“ he began.

“What on Earth is a ‘proregina?’"

“Like a vicereine-“

“A what? None of this makes any sense! You can’t just-“

“Like a female viceroy,” Acidalia added, very unhelpfully. Cressida looked to Athena for help, but she just whispered, “Don’t know either.”

“An important person on the Moon,” her father said slowly, looking like he had a headache. “She said there’s been an uprising in Appalachia—that’s Eleutheria’s capital city. They think Acidalia’s dead-“

“Well, she’s clearly not, unless this chick really is an alien robot,” Cressida snapped, “so I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“I’m a leader of the Revolution,” Acidalia explained, like this was something completely normal to say. “We’re in a difficult spot here. The Novagenetica-“

“The eugenicist crazies,” Athena explained helpfully.

“-have declared a full-out war on us and claimed to have killed me. Obviously, since I’m not on-planet and it’s difficult to contact me out here, many have made their assumptions about my untimely death. The entire reason I’m here is because an assassination attempt that killed my brother forced me to flee, so that likely was a contributing factor in why so many believed the Nova when they declared that I had been murdered. Either way, most people on both sides think I’m deceased, and it’s vital that we correct that in order to preserve the safety of the planet.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Cressida demanded.

“Well,” Acidalia said, “meet our Martian contact, David Seren.” She gestured to Cressida’s father. “Ally of the Revolution and close friend to President Tycho.”

Astonished, Cressida stared at her father. “What the hell, Dad? You’ve been in cahoots with a bunch of Eleutherian insurgents and you didn’t tell me?”

“Seeing as we’re spearheaded by several members of the federal government, we aren’t exactly insurgents,” Acidalia replied calmly, her tone never shifting. “More like one faction of a civil war. But we need to stop discussing this. Clearly, I’m needed on-planet, and so is your father. For your safety, so are you. Besides, you’re an expert on Martian climate and agriculture and you’ve attended finishing school; the daughter of a Martian aristocrat is valuable.” She smiled in a way that was probably supposed to be welcoming, but the corners of her eyes didn’t crinkle up like they were supposed to, and she looked too strange for anything she said to come across as genuine.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere with me,” Cressida said. “I can’t leave Mars. I have a life. I have school, exams are coming up—it’s November, remember? Finals start next month.”

Acidalia looked entirely nonplussed about this. “I can tutor you on anything involving biology,” she said, “and I’m sure you’ll find that there are plenty of educational opportunities on Eleutheria.”

“You’re missing the point,” Cressida said, wondering if she was really that thick. “I can’t just not take exams. I need a diploma-"

“A what?” Athena asked.

“I’ll write you a recommendation letter,” Acidalia said dismissively. “No school in its right mind would deny you an admission. And, keep in mind, this is only temporary, and for your own safety. Now that I am here and my brother is dead—“ Her voice broke for a second, then she regained her composure so quickly Cressida wondered if anything had even changed to begin with. “Now that my brother is dead,” she continued, “this place is no longer safe for any of us. My mother will find out the truth soon enough, and then we will all be in danger.”

“But I haven’t done anything,” Cressida said indignantly. “I have no part in any of this.” She found it hard to believe that any Eleutherian dignitary could get away with murdering the daughter of an important politician. People would notice that, and then they’d be angry, even if there was nobody left to really mourn the Seren family.

Acidalia sighed and looked up at Cressida. “Your innocence doesn’t matter,” she said. “Your father spoke to me once, and that’s enough. She’d murder you in a heartbeat if she thought you were related to a revolutionary, even if you posed no threat to her. I’ve seen her mutilate people for less. And even if the people of Mars rioted in response, there’s nothing they could do to counter Alestra’s immense power. She’d sooner bomb your whole city to ashes than show an ounce of mercy.”

“Acidalia is right,” Cressida’s father said. “That woman is a psychopath, and she doesn’t like Mars—or Martians—very much.”

“But she’s half-Martian!” Cresida exclaimed, pointing at Acidalia.

“Yes,” Acidalia finished, “I am. And so is—was—my dead little brother, who my mother’s henchman shot in the head. Nobody is safe from her, I guarantee it.”

A shiver went down Cressida’s spine. “What do you think she’ll do if she finds out—?”

“I don’t know,” Acidalia replied. “I can’t say. But if you would like to remain alive—which I suggest you do; it is a dreadful waste to lose somebody so young—I suggest packing and leaving. Once the sirens start blaring, it will already be too late. I’m sure you know what happened to Daedalia.”

“Okay, but…” Cressida’s voice trailed off. She’d be missing school, she realized suddenly, and she’d lose half of her social points if she was absent any more. After that bout of flu in October, the Algorithm was already angry with her, and it would not be merciful if she abandoned her planet without a trace a month before exam season. And then the rumors would start and her reputation would sink even lower—she’d be called a deadbeat and a dropout and all manner of other things, and she’d never be able to go to a good college if she had no status left. The Martian meritocracy didn’t allow for mistakes or variations from the norm, even during a civil war.

But losing merit was still better than being dead.

A surge of fury coursed through Cressida’s veins. There was no way for her to get out of this—if she stayed she’d surely die, and if she left she’d be abandoning the life her father struggled so much to build for her. And none of it was her fault. She wasn’t the one who joined a revolution for the sake of a planet she didn’t even live on, she wasn’t the one who made friends with a woman whose family was insane enough to murder anyone its black sheep of a daughter set her eyes upon, and she wasn’t the one who dragged her friends into a war so violent teenage girls could be shot to death over nothing, absolutely nothing. This was all her father’s fault, and even beyond that, Acidalia’s—Acidalia Cipher, who had the nerve to show up at the Seren home, completely ignorant of the trail of destruction she’d leave in her wake. How dare she? None of this was Cressida’s problem.

But the nuclear war hadn’t been the Daedalians’ problem, either, and they were still the ones who had to pay for it. Such was politics. It was all one big game of chess—you sacrifice the pawns for the sake of the king. And the Algorithm would rather see a game won than save a useless piece.

Still, despite her desire—no, need—to please the Algorithm and her homeland, Cressida was growing tired of being a pawn.